Arnie and his committee were much at ease during the planning period knowing that Sarasota could provide free-time recreational activities that would satisfy even the most demanding environmentalist. That was BTA — before the athletes! Now the collective feeling of the committee regarding recreation was anxiety. Since Arnie, Jordy, Melissa, and Pam had experienced the cautious elation of a surprisingly successful first meeting day, they were struck by the possibilities of the evening to come. Stomach acid flowed freely within the group and Jordy’s Pepcid disappeared faster than sunflower seeds in a dugout or free recycled notepads at an environmentalist meeting.
Late the night before, after completing the revised meeting program, Arnie and Jordy had split up and visited several night spots to alert them to the possible number and size of patrons they could see for the next few nights. Although relatively rare, the few go-go joints were also visited and the message delivered. Arnie and Jordy sort of pictured themselves as the Paul Reveres of sleaze as they rode through the night delivering the news to all appropriate institutions.
Interestingly, what they considered to be news that would be cause for concern, was accepted with elation. Activity immediately heightened as bars and clubs scurried to place emergency orders for beer and liquor, and go-go joint managers placed calls to counterparts in Bradenton, St. Petersburg, Clearwater, and as far away as Tampa and Fort Myers in an attempt to round up more dancers to keep the action continuous. Monday morning traffic into the Sarasota area reached higher than usual levels with an abundance of beer trucks and stretch limousines, all with darkly tinted windows and packed with as many young ladies as would fit, all bound for the aspiring pleasure palaces of Sarasota. Numerous complaints to the police and letters to the editor of the Sarasota Herald Tribune followed from geriatric drivers who were intimidated and incensed by these foreign vehicles bearing down on them with horns blowing and obscenities being spewed from drivers and passengers. How dare they insist that the aging Sarasotan does not have the right to drive constantly in the left lane with the left turn signal blinking in case a decision is made to turn left. And young ladies in their low cut dresses hanging out the windows waving frantically at them to move aside and let them reach their destinations. It was a travesty!
All of Arnie’s prayers and wishes and those of the other committee members could not stop Monday evening from arriving. At six o’clock the vendor area closed and the trash talk booths were emptied and everyone was on their own until nine o’clock the next morning.
Okay everybody. It’s recreation time! C h a p t
e r 21
Maxwell Gordon met up with his old friend Mo Robbins and with Tony DiNardo in the lobby of the Ritz-Carlton with plans to go to dinner. Since Mo and Tony were living in Texas, and were major steak fans, the hotel concierge suggested they go to Ruth’s Chris Restaurant, south on Route 41. Gordon had invited Chuck Barkey to join them, but he opted to eat at the Ritz-Carlton and have a look around the city afterward. Chuck also harbored some hope that Leona, the Ritz trainee, might be around and could spring loose for a little guided tour of the city. Not long after Robbins, DiNardo, and Gordon left, Barkey exited an elevator and entered the lobby, heading leisurely toward the front desk.
“Well, if it isn’t Leona, my favorite RitzCarlton trainee in the whole world,” said Chuck, with his best resistance-melting smile. “I am in need of a dining and touring partner, and the winning raffle ticket for this pleasure has your name on it — ‘Leona the trainee’.”
“Isn’t that exciting, Mr. Barkey, but unfortunately, as you can see, I am presently gainfully employed. And, I’m afraid management would be sorely disappointed if I were to jump ship, so to speak, and accept this treasured prize that I have won,” retorted Leona.
“Oh Leona, Miss Trainee rather, once the sun sets on Sarasota this evening it will never rise again if you don’t find a way to honor your commitment as the grand prize winner,” intoned Chuck.
“Oh, Mr. Barkey, I can tell that your attendance at the “Trash Talk” meeting, even after only one day, has markedly enhanced your ability to so melodiously deliver all this bullshit!” Leona answered.
Chuck howled and soon they were both having a vigorous laughing bout over the exchange. “Seriously,” said Chuck, “don’t you think the management would consider it an important part of your job to entertain important guests?”
“Oh yes,” said Leona. “For important guests but —”
“Okay, okay,” said Chuck. “No more trash talk for the day. Lessons over, even though I don’t know who’s the teacher and who’s the student! When do you finish work?”
“Not until ten o’clock, pretty late.”
“Well,” said Chuck, “if it’s not against the rules, why don’t I meet you after I eat and you’re finished and I can take you out for a snack.”
“That sounds like a reasonable alternative to the grand prize. I’ll be here at ten, but I can’t stay out too late. I work the morning shift tomorrow.”
“Hey little lady,” said Chuck, “that sounds great. Don’t forget, I have school in the morning. See you at ten.” And Chuck headed off, smiling, toward the hotel restaurant.
John Delray, a quarterback with Kansas City, and Chuck Goodson, a defensive back with Pittsburgh, met Igor Federianov, a Russian hockey player with Detroit, and a few environmentalists at the Boat House Bar shortly after the end of the meeting sessions. After several drinks, the group decided to get some Japanese food at the restaurant across the street in Sarasota Quay, and planned to go from there to some of the go-go clubs along Route 41. The environmentalists were beginning to feel more like the athletes with every drink and by the time the teppanyaki dinner was devoured and three or four glasses of sake had been imbibed by each participant, a couple of five foot five environmentalists were feeling like the offensive tackles from the Baltimore Ravens.
When they hit The Saturn, a go-go bar on Route 41, the two little giants made a beeline for the bar and grabbed a couple of empty seats. They had what they considered to be two of the most beautiful women they had ever seen seated on the bar stools on either side of them. Joe Zedich from Syracuse, and Don D’Arma from Kalamazoo, were in heaven. This was nothing like the forests they stomped around in registering rare plant species. This was life the way the big guys lived it! Emboldened by the earlier martinis at the Boat House and the Japanese lightning they consumed at dinner, they dived into a few beers and a spirited conversation with the lovely lasses.
“Where you from?” asked Joe.
“We’re from here,” came the ladies’ answer in unison.
“Whadda ya do?” said Don.
“Whadda ya mean?” the redhead next to Joe answered.
“Where do you work?” Don clarified.
“Look,” said the blond next to Don, “you gonna buy us a drink or you gonna keep grilling us with questions? What are you guys, detectives?”
“Yes,” said Joe.
Simultaneously, Don said, “No.”
“Do you two know each other?” asked blondie.
“Sure, sure” said Joe. “We’re sort of plant detectives. Hey, what ya drinking?”
“I’ll have a champagne cocktail,” said redhead.
“Me too,” said the blond.
“Hey, bartender,” shouted Don, “bring these two lovely ladies champagne cocktails.”
“Comin’ up,” said the bar man and was there with two drinks in no time.
“Here’s lookin’ at shya,” said Joe with a slight slur as he lifted his glass and all four drank.
“What’s a plant detective do?” asked redhead.
“Oh, it’s exciting work,” said Don. “We’re out in the woods, you know. Among the wild animals. And we are searching for rare plants.”
“What do you do with them when you find them?” asked blondie.
“Oh, we record them in our notebook and report back to the national society on our findings,” answered Don.
The two women looked at each
other wide eyed.
“Sure sounds exciting,” said blondie, rolling her eyes.
“Oh yeah,” said redhead. “How about another drink?”
“Oh, sure,” said Joe. “Hey bartender, two more of the same for the ladies.”
Both Joe and Don were beginning to have more problems with their speech, and the surroundings were beginning to look a little distorted too.
“What kind of wild animals are in the woods where you work? Where do you work?” asked blondie.
“Syracuse,” said Joe.
“Kalamazoo,” said Don.
“You look for plants in a zoo?” asked redhead, a puzzled look on her face.
“No, not in a zoo,” said Don. “In Kalamazoo. That’s a city in Michigan.”
“Well, what kind of wild animals are in . . . Kala . . . my . . . er . . . whatever zoo you live in?” asked blondie
“Oh man, there are, uh, rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, some deer. Somebody even saw a wolverine once.”
“What the hell’s a wolverine?” asked redhead, just as Chuck Goodsen appeared behind them.
“A wolverine, ladies, is a good lookin’ defensive back from Pittsburgh. I went to college at the University of Michigan. I am a wolverine. That was our school mascot.”
John Delray appeared at his side. At six feet four and six feet five tall respectively, Chuck and John were an awesome contrast to Joe and Don.
“Well,” said blondie, “I am a big wolverine fan. Let’s go see how dangerous you can be.” And with that she hopped off the barstool and took Chuck’s hand.
Redhead dismounted her stool as well and slipped her arm around John.
As they began to walk away, blondie turned back and called, “Thanks for the drinks, guys. It was great talking with you.”
“Yeah,” yelled redhead. “See ya.”
And they walked toward a booth in the back.
“Damn it,” said Joe. “You scared them off with that animal talk. Hell, you Midwesterners don’t know how to handle women.”
“Hey,” answered Don. “You’re the guy who started that crap about detectives. I was gonna tell them we were pro athletes.”
“What?” cried Joe, practically falling off his stool. “Pro athletes! What sport? Checkers?”
“Oh hell,” said Don. “I’m not feeling that great anyway. Let’s pay the bill and get out of here.”
“Okay,” responded Joe. “Hey bartender, can you bring us the bill, please.”
“Comin’ up,” said the bartender as he totaled it and dropped it on the bar in front of them.
“I’ll get this,” said Joe as he picked up the small paper and looked at it as he reached for his wallet. “Holy shit!” he exclaimed as he stopped in mid-reach.
“What’s the matter?” said Don.
“This must be somebody else’s bill.”
“Why?” said Don. “Let me see.”
Joe’s shaking hand held the one-hundredforty dollar bill in front of Don’s face.
Don removed his glasses to get a clearer look at such a close distance. “Jesus Christ,” said Don. “You’re right. This can’t be ours.”
“Bartender,” Don called. “We got the wrong bill.”
The bartender came down the bar, took the bill and looked at it. “Nope. It’s right, and it is yours.”
“How can that be?” whined Joe. “All we had was a couple of beers and the ladies had a couple of those cocktails.”
“Yep,” said the bartender. “Twenty-five dollars each for the champagne cocktails. That’s one hundred dollars. Five dollars each for the beers. That’s another twenty. So that’s a hundred twenty. Five dollars cover charge for each of you makes it one thirty and taxes make it one hundred forty. And that don’t include no tip.”
A stunned silence followed.
“Yeah, okay,” stammered Don as the bartender drifted away. “Holy shit, I only have forty dollars in cash.”
“I’ve only got fifty,” replied Joe. “Shit, we’re fifty bucks short. I’ll have to use my American Express card. If my wife ever looks at the Amex bill, I’m dead.”
“I sure understand,” said Don. “I have the same problem. My wife writes the checks for our bills. But I don’t know what else to do.”
“Well,” said Joe, “we could just leave some money under the check and take off. Hell, it’s a rip-off and I wouldn’t feel we were really cheating anybody if we leave forty apiece and just leave. That’s fair enough.”
They each put forty dollars on the bar, pushed the money together, covered it with the bar tab, and, as nonchalantly as they could, staggered toward the door.
As they reached the door, the giant bouncer, after a nod over their heads toward the bar, stepped in front of them. “I think the bartender wants to talk with you fellows,” he said in a gravelly voice as he put his arm on the shoulders of the two escaping scientists and led them toward an office behind the end of the bar.
Arnie and Jordy were out on a recreation patrol, driving around town on the lookout for any trouble when they spotted the police car parked in front of the Saturn and two policemen entering the establishment.
“Uh-oh,” said Arnie as he pulled the car into a vacant spot across the street from the club. “We better take a look and make sure that none of our group has a problem.”
“Yes,” replied Jordy. I think you’re right — to be on the safe side.”
They entered the bar just in time to see the two policemen follow a man in a white apron and two familiar figures into a room at the end of the bar.
“Damn,” said Arnie, “those are a couple environmentalists from the meeting. I know that one guy is from Syracuse.”
“We better see what’s going on,” said Jordy.
“Yeah,” said Arnie as they approached the now closed door and knocked.
The door was opened slightly by the bartender, who looked out at Arnie and Jordy. “Yeah?” he said.
“Look, we’re with the Sarasota Environmentalist Society,” said Arnie. “We have a meeting in the city, and we just saw two of our members go into that room with you. Is there a problem?”
“Not yours,” said the bartender and closed the door.
Arnie knocked again and the door opened wider.
“I told you, it’s not your problem,” said the bartender but one of the police officers looked out and recognized Arnie from all of the discussions that Arnie had with the police in preparing for the meeting.
“Let them in,” said the officer. “They’re officials with the Environmentalist Society, and these guys claim to be attending their meeting.”
Arnie and Jordy squeezed past the bartender and into the room.
“Thank God,” said Joe. “Arnie, we need some help. We got ripped off.”
“They tried to rip me off,” shouted the bartender.
“Wait! Wait!” interrupted the police officer.
“You,” and he pointed at Joe, “tell your story so we can all hear it, and remain calm while you’re telling it.”
Joe began, and with Don’s help, they got through their version.
The bartender began to say something in response, but he was stopped by the police officer who put up his hand, palm out toward the bartender.
“Look,” said the cop, “I’m not a big fan of what goes on here with the bar girls and the drink rip offs. But it’s not illegal or so it seems,” and he looked at Arnie. “Your friends owe the place sixty dollars.”
As Arnie turned toward Joe and Don, Don said, “We’re willing to pay for it but we don’t have that much cash and if I put it on my credit card and my wife sees the statement, I’m dead.”
“Me too,” said Joe.
“Hey look,” said Arnie as he reached for his wallet and looked at the bartender. “If I pay the rest of this bill, will you let these guys go?”
“Yeah,” said the bartender. “I ain’t lookin’ to bust their chops or put them in jail. I just want my money.”
“Is that okay?” Arnie asked th
e officer.
“Sure, just so everybody’s happy,” said the cop.
Arnie pulled out sixty dollars and handed it to the bartender.
“I guess I don’t get a tip, huh?”
“I’ll give you a tip,” said one of the cops. “Tell your bar girls to pick on someone their own size.”
The cops chuckled and left, followed closely by Arnie, Jordy, and their two escapees. Outside, Don and Joe, who had sobered up significantly from the trauma, couldn’t thank Arnie and Jordy enough.
“You saved us,” exclaimed Don. “Jesus, if a report had somehow gotten back to my wife or if they would have called her and told her I was in jail, I’d never hear the end of it.
“Well,” said Jordy, “everything is okay now. We’re going to drive you back to your hotel. Hopefully you’ll stick to art galleries for the rest of the meeting.”
They all laughed weakly as they got into Arnie’s car.
C h a p t
e r
22
At ten o’clock Chuck Barkey was back at the front desk of the Ritz-Carlton.
“Well, Leona, it’s the witching hour, ten o’clock, and your Prince Charming is here to take you to the royal ball.”
“Well, Prince,” said Leona, “I accept an offer of a one-hour walk around the city, topped off by one glass of wine, and then off I go to bed. Alone! Is that acceptable your highness, my prince?”
“I am afraid I am forced to accept this lean but promising offer in lieu of even greater charms. But the city awaits.”
Leona bid goodbye to her fellow workers and arm in arm she and Chuck left the hotel.
When Leona awoke for work early the next morning, she once again marveled at the wonderful time she had the night before, and at what a gentleman Chuck Barkey had been. They walked around town in the moonlight and had a drink at the Silver Cricket before Chuck dropped her at her apartment on Orange Avenue. He had made no pass — just a slight peck on the cheek — and said good night. And he had been a very interesting and entertaining conversationalist. Leona was impressed at Barkey’s knowledge of art and the pleasure he got from looking in the art gallery windows along Palm Avenue. And he also regaled her with some of the dishes he prepared in his kitchen.
Trash Talk Page 7
